Last Man Standing
by Mystic25
Summary: Tag to 7x23, because of that look on Sam's face at the end.


Last Man Standing

Mystic25

Summary: Tag to 7x23. Because of that expression on Sam's face at the end.

A/N: Okay, I told myself that I have written too many tags, and I am currently working on a regular, long, start to finish "story fic" But then last night's episode happened. So I am claiming temporary insanity.

A/N#2: Here's to Season 8 of Supernatural! Cheers guys!

Rating: T for language and some imagery.

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**xxxxxXxxxx**

"_No course is lost so long as there is but one fool left to fight for it."_

-"Will Turner"

"_Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End."_

"_But he IS me!"_

"Lyra Silvertongue"

The Amber Spyglass

**xxxxxXxxxx**

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You never knew what you had until it's gone.

That was a lot of fucking crap.

Sam already _knew _ what he had like he knew demons and angels existed and that breathing was necessary to live.

He had a Leviathan to kill, a 17-year-old Profit of the Lord, broken bits of angel to help kill it, and a older brother.

The first one was gone, skewered through the neck black guts spread across the wall like tar – the mission long in the making complete. The second had been hauled away to God knows where by demon henchman. The third one was gone too, but he was a damn angel, however rattling his parts were inside, he could appear and disappear at will.

The forth one, the forth one was just _gone._

Dean was gone when he had been standing there a moment ago, solid, breathing, smart ass bone wielding, right there in front of him.

The room looked like a blast site. Black thick goo spread outwards around the only bits of untouched tiles – the place where Dick Roman's doppelganger and Dean had one stood.

Sam can feel his breathing in his ears, his eyes are blown so wide the lighting is tripled, almost blinding to him.

He's spinning around and around like an off kilter merry go round. He moves to each corner of the room, rolling carts away, pulling open even the smallest drawers and cabinets. He knows that Dean can't fit inside a space so tiny – at least the rational part of him knows this.

But, he does it anyway.

Like the way he had done when they were kids and Dean had come home after dark, leaving Sam with nothing but a loaded gun and shadows as company. Sam would never admit he was scared when Dean told him to double lock the hotel room door, and not to break the salt lines. Or when he drilled him on how to fire the gun should anything but him or dad come home.

If Dean didn't return in what Sam would believed was a long enough amount of time for him to be out, Sam would start checking out the window every five minutes, looking for his brother's familiar figure, like they were only playing hide-and-seek. But when that started to panic him as well, expecting him to see Dean in the grip of some monster, Sam would try and calm himself by sitting on his bed, and finger the trigger of the gun, and act brave, and unafraid, and not like a total girl. But the second Dean walked through the door with whatever food he managed to get them – Sam would forget to be brave and bolt for him. He would never hug him during these moments cause Dean would have called him a girly baby. But he would click the safety on the gun in such a way that the relief of seeing Dean back there would come pouring out in that one gesture.

Dean would always take the gun from him with a "_Geez Sammy, don't tell me you're still scared of the dark?"_ But he'd grip the end of Sam's wrist with his hand before taking the gun back. Letting Sam know that it was okay cause he was back.

There is no door for Dean to come through anymore, only sterile walls and tiles and black goo. Sam still has his gun, it's weight tucked into the waistband of his pants. He pulls it out and clicks on the safety, holding it flat in his hand.

He can feel the ghost of an illusion of Dean's hand taking it from him, hand warm and solid on his wrist. But then he blinks and the gun is still there, heavy and still in his hand. And Dean is still gone.

Sam is alone – as Crowley put it _completely_ _on his own_. And it's not any easier now that he is an adult, now that he has been through worse than a brother staying out an extra hour to pick up another order of onion rings.

It's worse. It's so much worse.

He is breathing so hard he swears he is hyperventilating, black spots float in front of his eyes. He shakes them away and slams a hard fist into the concrete wall, the wall crumples from the impact.

"Damnit Dean!" His words hold no real anger. He breathes out the thing that isn't anger, that is only heavy, thicker than even the Levithian blood.

This cannot be happening, not again, not after everything. Who was calling the goddamn shots huh? Who the fuck thought this was funny?

Dean's gone.

It's like some vital part of him has been severed, because he can't function. He backs along one of the only bits of vacant wall he can find and slides down it, dropping into a crouch. His hand is starting to throb, his knuckles are bleeding. It feels like the broke one of his fingers. It was supposed to hurt more than this but he can barely feel it, he can barely feel anything.

But, he doesn't even have the luxury of feeling numb for very long before the pain shoots up his hand like knives, his entire hand pulsates like a heartbeat.

His stands back up and takes a step back to ground himself, his feet squelch in the black goo. Sam looks down at the congealing mass of Leviathan blood under his shoe.

His vision tunnels, all other sounds muffle out except for that thick sucking sound.

Sam steps out of the tarlike vicious substance. He drops his gun on the metal exam table, splaying the fingers of his good hand and his fist out on the cold surface , his breathing heavy as granite. Then he overturns the entire metal table with an echoing thudding bang, the gun clatters to the floor, an angry growl of a sound tears from his throat. He does this to another table, then anoter, shattering the laptops on them He throws everything he can get his hands on, beakers, lab equiptment until the room echoes with the cacophony.

He's back on his knees again when he has nothing left to throw. He is now only one step below hyperventilating, he feels vomit just inside his throat. He swallows it, trying not to dwell on what Dean would do if her were standing there. How he would scream at him to talk him down off his hysteria, the way he had done all those months ago in that warehouse.

But there was nothing but quiet, god awful quiet that weighed on Sam like lead when he finally raised his head from his throbbing hand. He spotted his gun lying underneath a broken box of those fucking little creamers. He reached for it with his good hand, standing up with it.

He was shaking and he could still feel more vomit in his mouth than he could keep swallowing down.

But all that was overpowered by one thing:

He has to find his brother. He has to find Dean.

Wherever they took him: The words: _Purgatory._ flitted to him like flitting ash from a horrendous fire.

If someone was hurting him – _God knows how many monsters were down there, monsters with claws and teeth, and venom, and Dean with none of these._

Sam would find all of them and make them leak every goddamn drop of blood they had. He would break every sinew, rip apart every piece whatever they called flesh from their bodies if they dared even breathed on his brother.

He let this anger ignite in him like a flame. Fear paralyzed you, but anger fueled you. And if he gave into despair, then Dean would be – he'd be dead.

Sam was going to find his brother. His good hand clenched around his gun, and despite his flaring of anger, he still had to swallow down the choking pain that hung sideways in his throat. He swallowed, feeling a pang right at the apex of his heart, like something had been torn from it.

Something had.

"_Dean,"_ the name came out like a plea, it was a whisper compared to his thunderous bark. He couldn't do this anymore. He discovered a long time ago that he couldn't live without his brother, he couldn't live as a half a dying ghost.

Sam checked the clip in his gun. It was fully loaded with 9 millimeter rounds. "It's okay Dean," he talked to Dean like he was still there, like could hear him. The clip slid back into the gun with a heavy sound. _"_I'm bringing you back _alive_," He cocked the first gun into the chamber. His eyes fixated to the ring of clean concrete floor where Dick and Dean had been standing just moments ago. "Or I'm going down with you."

Sam took one last look at the place he had last seen his brother, weaving his words into a silent vow before he walked out the black splattered door.

**xxxxXxxxx**

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**End.**

I tell you that look on Sam's face at the end -he was terrified, not like baby terrified of his mother leaving him alone, but like terrified that his heart had just stopped and his entire world just fell apart.

R/R please.


End file.
